Ouyang’s stomachache was real. Having slipped out of the training room, he set aside his urgent need to pee, preoccupied with more pressing matters.

He tiptoed toward the door he’d spotted earlier—likely the archives room—making the ankle chain jingle as softly as possible.

Safely reaching it, he stared tensely at the doorknob. Just grab the documents, and he could escape this hellhole.

He twisted the knob gently and pushed. Nothing. Ouyang’s face darkened instantly, a flicker of frustration crossing his brow.

He still hadn’t found the handcuff key. Now he needed another for this door.

Where would Anderson hide it?

Anderson, prone to rage-induced werewolf transformations, wouldn’t carry valuables on him.

Ouyang recalled trailing him closely—no jingle of keys from his pockets.

No clues. And he couldn’t fight Anderson head-on.

Taking on a massive, powerful werewolf with just kitchen knives? Useless.

Ouyang sighed in despair. No combat talent at all. Light and frail, he’d been exploited by the Bloodkin Prince. Worse, he’d be reduced to a breeding tool for the Blood Clan.

If he couldn’t even kill a werewolf, how could he eliminate that Bloodkin Prince menace?

Clenching his fists, Ouyang gritted his teeth against the pain. He couldn’t give up.

Searching a castle with over ten rooms for a key? Impossible in ten minutes—even if he strained his eyes till tears fell.

Time ticked away. Clutching his aching stomach, he reluctantly aborted the mission. Rushing to the restroom, he turned—and froze.

Sobs echoed from the room opposite the archives.

Ghosts? Besides werewolves?

He’d confirmed it repeatedly: only Anderson and four maids lived here. Even Anderson’s werewolf brothers were absent from their portraits.

The candlelit hallway felt icy and desolate. The cries continued, mixed with pleas for help. Hearing them at night sent chills down Ouyang’s spine.

In a city with Mosterians, ghosts weren’t entirely strange.

The trapped girls must have heard his footsteps, their sobs growing deliberately fragile.

“Is someone there? Please save us…”

“Wahhh… I want to go home…”

“I don’t want to stay here…”

Heart pounding, Ouyang gripped the wooden door’s handle. What ghost awaited inside, luring him in?

TV ghosts came in all horrifying forms. But even Sadako was now a cute girl—maybe this one was adorable too…

Ouyang Qingdan, he scolded himself, shaking his head. You’re a man! Ghosts won’t eat you. Besides, you’re not tasty anyway.

Staying calm, he pushed the door. It creaked open easily—unlocked.

He hesitated, panic rising. What if a pale, slender hand with red nails shot through the gap, grabbing him?

Seconds passed. Silence. Even the sobs stopped.

Peeking inside, he saw a rectangular room with brown carpet. A dim crystal lamp hung from the black ceiling. Two AC units chilled the air. Dozens of lifelike maid wax figures stood arranged like a private museum.

Dressed in varied maid outfits, they posed on gray steps for the owner’s viewing. Each spaced a meter apart, with small metal plaques on the floor listing prices and buyers’ names.

The antique clock on the dark brown wall read 2 a.m. A horrifying realization struck him.

Fumbling for his phone, he checked the screen—no signal.

Staring at it helplessly, he muttered inwardly, “Lord Bloodkin Prince, it’s not that I won’t call you. No signal here. Please forgive me… I beg you…”

He tucked the phone away after one last prayer.

No ghosts. No sobs. Nothing noteworthy. Time to leave.

As Ouyang stepped out, footsteps echoed from upstairs—approaching.

Had Anderson heard him?

He darted back inside, closing the door silently. Two sets of footsteps. Anderson was coming with a maid.

Hiding behind a wax figure, Ouyang gripped its smooth, pale thigh as cover, peering through the gap.

Anderson led Maid No. 2 to the farthest room—a giant transparent square container inside.

Curious about the container, Ouyang froze as a soft, fragile voice whispered above him.

“Stop touching my thigh… it tickles…”

“Sorry! I’ll let go right now—”

He released the wax leg instantly. Then it hit him.

“Wait…! Wax figures talk?!”

“You can hear me?!”

He’d blurted a reply, exposing his ability. A complex unease washed over him.

“What’s that container for? I saw Anderson take someone in…”

The wax maid’s voice trembled with suppressed tears. “The master… is about to turn her into one of us.”